


Iida

by Aiwe_Saito



Category: Harry - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Baking, Black Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, POC!Potter Week
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2019-10-25 02:05:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17715983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aiwe_Saito/pseuds/Aiwe_Saito
Summary: Draco Malfoy has had enough excitement for a million lifetimes. He's happy as he is now, apprenticing at Iida, perfecting croissants, firecalling his mother when he can. He enjoys the dramas of his friends' lives, the respite from the cruelty he left behind.He should have known it wouldn't be that easy. And he really, definitely, obviously should have known that his reckoning would involve Harry bloody Potter.





	1. Laminating

**Author's Note:**

> TW/CW: This chapter contains mentions of implied abuse. Please take care of yourself if this is mentally or emotionally triggering for you.

Ding!

The timer felt almost deafening in the quiet shop. A harried look came over the young man at the prep counter, sighing as he wiped his hands on the apron.

The apple slices would be uneven-- nothing detectable by the average eye, but Mr. Iida would be sure to notice. He swore under his breath, but gave it up as lost as he went to pull the loaves out of the open, enjoying the satisfying click of the trays on the resting racks.

It was Draco’s favorite time of day, this early morning, where everything was quiet-- well, as quiet as London ever got. When the sun was coming up, and he was alone with his work, he could almost forget how far he was from home.

Almost.

He looked mournfully at the half-prepped apples, but went back with renewed determination. He could always just eat the middling slice, he realized, and it was halfway to his mouth before a strong manicured hand snatched it from his grip. He startled.

“Mr. Iida, I-- oh, it’s just you,” he said, equally relieved and annoyed as his eyes met the brown laughing eyes of his head baker.

“No eating at the prep counter, you know the rules,” Miriam Iida said sternly, popping the slice into her mouth with a lazy smirk. He pointed dramatically as she chewed. She shrugged.

“I’m not on the clock, am I?”

Draco opened his mouth to retort, but she popped a pilfered grape into his mouth instead. He gave up.

“Bit early today, aren’t we,” He drawled through the juice. “Are you planning to actually accomplish anything, or simply lure unsuspecting young men into your talons?”

“Lucky me, you do both! Well, lucky for Papa, anyway, because you’re so much better than me it’s almost insulting,” she said brightly.

She was right. Draco was very, very good at this. Years of practicing delicate cuts, exacting stirs, and potentially fatal reactions made him a perfect fit for the fiddly, gastronomic precision that was Iida’s main business. It was the best patisserie this side of Paris (including some of them besides), and all Draco lived for. Well, most of it anyway, besides his mother.

His mother. She hadn’t been the happiest when he’d first started working here, but at least it was the best in London, she’d said, sighing. He almost pitied her pride, except it hid in the corners of his heart just as fierce.

He’d fallen into this line of work completely by accident-- Miriam had been one of his first friends after his release, and the only one to stick. She was a shag gone upside down, when Draco didn’t know himself, stopping halfway because he was ‘somewhere else’ and making herself a cheese toastie Draco could still taste. She’d been his guide when it was all too new and too terrifying, armed with a fierce brightness Draco adored.

And when she begged for his help last Christmas, he’d jumped at the chance to do _something_ , something respectable, something he’d thought he could at least slightly enjoy, after weeks of coming home with the stench of Peri Peri making him nauseous.

He never expected the father of brilliant, smiling Miriam would be an exacting, hawk-eyed Master that took him right back to being eleven. He never expected to adore the work-- the elegant symmetry of simple and complex that entwined each creation that entered the storefront.

It was a good little life, now; left alone, work held to a challenging standard, a hellion poking her nose in just often enough to entertain. It was good to nourish peoples’ bodies, to watch the lines smooth away just a little as they put treats in little hands, or picked up a cake in anticipation. He’d never been smiled at so much in his life.

After so many years of tight lipped pain, the ability to bring smiles was a precious treasure Draco held close: like the talks with his mother, and the way it felt to chase a snitch, god he missed that, arms outstretched for a satisfying--

“Oi! Draco! Unbelievable. You haven’t heard a word, have you.” Draco shook an unapologetic head. She worried her lip.

“Draco, we have a massive order. I mean really big. And important, by the looks of it. Must be very important, because I’ve never heard of them. Something about a prison renovation?”  
She pulled out a sheaf of paper from her handbag.

Draco raised an eyebrow. Plenty of important people-- movie stars, government officials, professional athletes-- all of them had to eat, and everyone knew that the tiny bright haven of Iida was the best place to source it.

“They want over a thousand of every seasonal item, but in miniature, if you can bloody believe it, plus miniatures of the savory items from the end of summer, though heaven can only surmise where we’ll get cherries from in fucking April and not have them be absolute rubbish. Plus a cake shaped like some dead bonkers castle, though that’ll be me, obviously.”

She pulled out the picture for reference, and his blood froze. It must have shown, because Miriam put down her papers, face alarmed.

“Draco? Draco, love, you well?”

Well? WELL? How could anyone look at Azkaban and feel well?

She didn’t know, she doesn’t know, she can’t know. _Backwards from ten_ , Draco, _backwards from ten_.

“Just a bit tired, sorry. Renovations, you were saying?” Miriam eyed him with the look of the unconvinced. He managed a smile, hoping it didn’t look as grim as he felt. She turned her head back to the papers.

“It’s a reopening? Of sorts. Some sort of prison reform. I’m out of my depth, but you’re welcome to take a look,” she handed him a sheet, and it was all he could do not to toss them in the oven. He set it above his workstation, heart beating wildly.

“When’s it done? Next month?”

“Er, the 30th. Of this month.” The way she winced told Draco she’d yet to tell her father. He’d lose his mind if he found out.

“I know, I know,” she said, as if reading his mind, “but we’ve got no special orders this month, and the compensation is enough to run the shop for months and give you a bonus besides. Anyway, someone will come by tomorrow to talk. Has to be early morning though apparently, so would you mind--?”

His breath stopped.

“--staying a bit later to finish the samples? I know Papa will want to, but his backs dead fucked, and he can’t be doing such delicate work for that long. I’ll pay you time and a haaaaallllllf.” She sang in his ear, and he rolled his eyes swatting at her and feeling giddy with relief.

“Of course, you hag. Just leave the list.”

“Oh excellent, I knew I could count on you!” She beamed at him, and he smiled, feeling a pang in his heart at her open face. Why he’d picked her up in the first place.

Just then, Mr. Iida walked in, and the anxiety was lost as the shop whirred to life, morning rush of pastry giving way to afternoon tea cakes, and evening bread rush, and by the time he turned the placard over he finally felt he could think without vomiting.

 _Azkaban_ , he said to himself as he laid out the croissant dough. Butter. Fold. _Azkaban_. Turn. Butter. Fold. Screams. Turn. Next. Butter. Fold. _Azkaban_. Turn. _Azkaban_. Butter. _Azkaban_. Fold. Fold--

“Fuck!” Draco swore. He’d forgotten the butter. He peeled back the long thin mess.

Still salveagable. He sighed with relief, stomach still roiling, images flashing.

His father’s ashen face as they wheeled him in, his mother’s worried face still strong and beautiful, head high and cheeks just rosy enough for Draco to know it was flush.

He smiled into the cherry blossom paste he was blending, carefully piping it into the buttery nests. She was the only one allowed communication (his rules), and he adored her even more than he had at age seven, hands in her skirts and stealing her canapes.

He really should take some of these home for her. She’d be pleased to see his work, and these were just her taste. Gentle bright cherry and earthy wild mushroom, blood oranges in crisp crusts speckled with veiny, crumbly cheese; even the odd Japanese perilla and salmon tea sandwich. All Mr. Iida’s creations. All heavenly.

His mother deserved all heavenly items after so many years of personal hell.

He looked at the clock. Merlin. It was nearly midnight, and he’d have to be back in the wee hours to do the regular work of morning prep besides.

He stuffed the sheaf of paper in his bag hastily; a single page fell out.

 _We are pleased_ , it read, _to announce the completion of the renewed Azkaban Rehabilitation Centre!_

The green ink glittered in a distinctly magical way-- Draco wondered if Miriam had been able to see it.

 _We would like to invite you to a celebration of justice, peace, and progress as we begin a revolution in system reform. All are welcome. None are to be turned away_.

Signed--

He almost dropped the paper. So much history. All down to those three names. He knew he should feel something-- bitterness, gratitude, something-- but he just felt tired. He stuffed it in his bag, walking home barely conscious, eyes closed for what seemed only a brief moment before his alarm blared.

He arrived back at Iida in much the same condition he left it, bag still in the front where he’d dropped it.

Miriam, however, was already there, tongue peeking out in concentration as she piped royal icing onto delicate cookies.

“Petits in the oven, ta love.” She barely looked at him, and when she did, he saw his tiredness reflected.

“Didn’t take it well then?” He said, the cold water and soap on his skin a welcome jolt, and she scoffed, eyes hard.

“Not his problem, is it?” She said shortly. Draco opened his mouth, but shut it again quickly, and they passed the several hours till sunrise in companionable but tense silence.

The bell tinkled.

“Hello? May we come in?”

He froze. No mistaking that voice. In pain, in joy, in fear. Unmistakeable.

“Back here! Just a moment, please!” Miriam shouted.

“Draco, love, can you show them where to sit, please.”

He blanched. Not a chance.

“Miriam, there are a total of four tables, if they’re stupid enough to get lost they don’t deserve to be here,” he said snappishly. She frowned, narrowing her eyes.

“You’re tetchy. Why so tetchy, my little star? Is one of them fit, is it that? No use being frightened hiding back here, you know, you’re right edible yourself, fit enough, and--”

“Please!” He didn’t care how desperate he sounded. “Don’t make me go out there.”

Miriam’s eyes narrowed even further.

“Don’t think this is over, Mallory,” she said, shoulders squared as she carried out serving platters, kicking the doors open with a bang.

Draco was frozen the whole time she was out, unable to do anything for fear of being seen. It seemed an age before she strode back in. He jumped.

“Not the right PUMPKIN, he says. _Bland_ , he says. BLAND! One of our savories. _BLAND_! I’ve half a mind to tell them all to piss off right this minute!”

“Why don’t you?” Draco said carelessly.

“Because they’re paying enough to afford Papa’s Live-In, that’s why!”

Draco blinked and they stared at each other. She collapsed onto a stool.

“I meant to tell you soon, but never found the time. Papa needs surgery, but he’ll need someone for a few months. We were thinking of keeping you on only part time and just closing all but bread service and special orders… or… well, closing entirely.”

Draco blanched. Iida hadn’t closed a single day. Ever. It was a point very well-hammered into Draco’s psyche from the interview on. Keeping tradition was important. Draco understood.

“With the money from this contract, we can keep the shop open full time with the two of us and give you the pay rise you deserve as head baker. So we’re doing it. Fuck. They just want this stupid, ridiculous, Pasty. Who would want a pasty.”

Draco knew in a second. Of course he knew. How could he not? He’d had them every year, wrapped in hopes and love and new challenges, fresh with magic, when everything was as simple and heartbreaking as it ever would be.

“I know what to do. Tell them we’ll take it.” The words came out before he knew it, and she arched an eyebrow.

“I don’t know what you’re up to, my bizarre pointy angel, but I’ll trust you. You’re sure, yeah?”

“Trust me, I know exactly what they want,” he said confidently. She nodded, still tense, and went out. Her brows were still furrowed when she came back in, but the anger in her eyes was gone.

“They’ll be back in two days. And offered enough for the trouble to give you a very nice Halloween bonus besides.” She folded onto the stool, head falling onto floured muslin. A cloud billowed around her dark hair.

The next two minutes happened both in slow motion and all at once.

Granger’s voice sounded far away as she pushed the doors open softly.

“I’m sorry about Ron, I mean, my friend, he means well, it’s just that he’s obnoxiously particular, not that we knew that before, obviously, I--”

Her eyes met Draco’s, and the words died off. They stared for a moment before Miriam broke the spell, coughing conspicuously as she wiped the circle of flour off her forehead.

“Well,” Granger said, looking around wildly. “It’s been a while, Malfoy.”

Draco panicked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You must have the wrong person. My name is Mallory. Am I correct in assuming you’re the one making the absurd demand to create an entirely new pastry in the next two days?” He said coolly, hoping his eyes wouldn’t betray his desperation. She winced, turning to Miriam.

“I really am very sorry about that. If I had known that was going-- I would have notified you if I knew they were going to make such an enormous fuss. I hope the additional compensation will be sufficient?”

“Don’t ask me, it’s Draco who’ll be up late with this nonsense. If he hadn’t have said yes, you and your lot would be begging at an Ottolenghi.”

Granger raised an eyebrow.

“Well then. Thank you, Mr. Mallory. I look forward to seeing the final product. This is-- it’s a very important night, you see. We need to show people that the old ways are no longer necessary, that we can mix together all sorts and take care of those of us who make mistakes. We normally wouldn’t be out--” she glanced at Miriam. “--here. But… well… you’re the best,” she said, slightly out of breath from all the atrocious subtext.

It made him sick.

“All right cheers, see you in two days, this way then,” Miriam said briskly, cutting in not a moment to soon and practically dragging that earnest monstrosity out of the room. All the air went with her, and he collapsed onto the table.

 _Backwards from ten_ , Draco. _Backwards from ten_.

Miriam slammed back in, fury in her eyes. She stopped short, eyes darting across his face.

“You well?” She asked quickly. He pulled himself together to say yes, but somehow only managed a despicably small, “no.”

She nodded her head.

“Right then. The financiers need doing, double the sweet basil for the gift sets. Cottage loaves’ second proofing will be done in ten. Off you fuck.”

That night, for the first time in over a month, he firecalled his mother, her eyed crinkling like Christmas wrapping as she described her garden.

Even so, her laughter was tinged with sadness, and it gave him the courage to tell her.

“They’ve asked Iida to cater the Reopening ceremony.” He used all his years of breeding to keep his voice flat as possible. She would already know about it-- A Black is a Black, after all. Her eyes went dark.

“And I’m to assume you’ve agreed, my dove?”

“Yes. They didn’t know it was me at first, but-- one came back to talk to Miriam and she saw me.”

“What did she say?” His mother’s voice sounded even flatter than his, and something in him snapped.

“It’s more what she didn’t say. It was abhorrent, Mother, so much… so much goodwill and _sympathy_.” He spat the words out. His mother was quiet for a long time.

“My dragon, do you not think you are worthy of goodwill and sympathy?” She asked, eyes filled with emotion. He sputtered.

“Well-- I mean--I don’t need it. Or them. And their quiet condescension. They can take it back the whole lot of them. Malfoy’s don’t take charity, especially the emotional sort.”

She shook her head.

“You are the only Malfoy left,” she said. “It’s up to you what we do and do not do.” She reached out and touched his face.

“Your father and I led you so wrong, my dragon, and not a day goes by that I don’t think about how we could have gotten out, made it better. I should have been stronger, even when your father was not, and I will be sorry that I failed you for every moment of my existence. Possibly after, should my stars wish it so.” Tears were rolling down her face, but her voice was clearer than Draco ever thought he’d heard it.

Draco’s voice died in his throat, choking on the weight and sadness, and they both sat in silence until the fire died out.


	2. Measuring

He found himself awake there the next morning, the sun in his eyes. His bones cracked as he unfolded himself from the sofa.

He sighed as he changed his shirt, and again when he went out the door; he sighed in the barely awake line for posh coffee, and again when he binned the empty cup.

Somehow, this had become his life. Sighs upon sighs, step after step. Of course it would be those three fiends here ruining his perfect little oasis.

Miriam was in anything but an oasis when he arrived, banging things around in the kitchen. Her eyes softened a little when she saw him, but merely rolled her eyes and pointed to the worksheet on the desk.

“I came in early to finish the tea cakes, so after lunch you’ll have the oven for the pasty test bakes. Bloody pumpkin biscuit pasty business. He wouldn’t even touch the kabocha egg custard tarts. Rubbish, that is.”

“I concur. I meant to do some research last night--” meaning ask Tilly, his mother’s last remaining house elf, for the recipe, “-- but I got a bit distracted talking to my mother.” He turned to the list airily, and was stopped.

“If something… if you were… you would tell me, yeah? If you were in trouble? Or if there… I saw how you were yesterday, and I’ll call the whole thing off...you know, if… oh, bollocks!” She swore under her breath, and he felt a rush of affection.

“Not to worry, they’re just old… acquaintances, from school. Brings back unpleasant memories, you know how it is, I’m sure.”

“What? Like Bullies? I’ll bash their fucking heads in, never mind the money Draco--”

“No!” Oh, what the Trio would say if they heard this. “No. Being truthful, if anyone was bullying, it was probably me. But it’s all over now. Water under the bridge.” 

If only.

Looking only slightly mollified, Miriam nodded, and they both went back to their work, allowing the day to pass in companionable silence.

The end of it saw them covered in flour, pumpkin smeared on noses and collected in his glasses.

Miriam eyed the pastries with concern.

“They look like _onions._ ”

“Trust me, Miriam, that’s how they’re _meant_ to look,” Draco said confidently, cutting one in half deftly.

“Can’t we bake them into more curved shapes? Or somehow refine them a bit? They’ll look so out of place with the others.” She picked up one half, inhaling the fragrant, softly spiced steam.

“Good crisp,” she said, eyes twinkling and back bent in her best (read: terrible) Mary Berry impression. “A bit underdone it looks like, though the color looks--”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake Miriam, just eat the bloody thing.” Draco snapped without bite. She rolled her eyes.

“Feisty little toff, you.” Her eyes twinkled even as she acquiesced. He watched carefully, unwilling to admit his own butterflies as she bit delicately into the cooling pastry. She chewed for a moment, and Draco held his breath. What if it was wrong? What if his measurements were off? Oh Merlin, had he used kosher salt instead of caster sugar, fucking--

It took him a moment to notice her grinning up at him.

“That is just lovely, isn’t it. Much better than I expected. The look's still shit though. No braiding allowed? Maybe a leaf? A touch of mirror glaze?”

“No. It has to be this exact shape.” He realized as he spoke he would need a reason for the particularity. How was Miriam not asking more questions?

“Cheers then. What have I got to lose anyway, eh?”

Or not.

“Well done though Draco love, really. I’m proud of you, Mister ‘I can’t bake’. Maybe we can make this a seasonal.” She paused for a moment.

“You wouldn’t fancy a pint, would you?” She smiled, and suddenly Draco noticed it didn’t reach her eyes.

Once again, his mouth seemed to race ahead of his brain, and he said, ‘yes’ when he was rather sure he’d meant to say ‘no’.

She brightened, and the familiar sound of her non-stop chatter lifted his spirits. This was familiar territory-- work, local, kebab, bed. He let himself settle into her stories and his cider.

It was the simple things, wasn’t it really, the domestic bits of existence that --

“Oi! Draco! Did you even hear a word I said?” She said, arms crossed.

“You were prattling on well enough without me. I assumed my input was unnecessary.”

“Course it’s necessary, you cock, I’m talking about you!”

“To who?”

“To _you_ ,” she said exasperatedly, and he raised an eyebrow.

“I was _saying_ that your love life is an actual wreck, love. Unless you’re hiding something?” her eyebrow arched in a perfect impression of her father, and he rolled his eyes.

“Iida eyebrow down, please. Nothing to see here.”

“Really though love, I don’t think you realize how many people ask after you. I would be insulted that they’re always looking for the ‘fit blond with the perfect arse’ but I look at your arse more than they do.” She grinned, and he shook his head fondly.

“You’re horrid. Besides,” he said morosely, “we both know the problem lies less with the blond part and more with the rest of it.”

“Nothing wrong with the rest of it from where I’m sitting. I just don’t think it’s healthy for you and my father to have the same pastimes. Doesn’t have to be anything too serious, you know. Get off and fuck off, eh?”

“As always, your ability to distill modern romance astounds and inspires.”

Her eyes twinkled at his droll tone.

“Just a shame to waste your lovely, _lovely_ arse,” she said, kissing her fingers lightly, and he snorted into his beer.

 It was going to waste, to tell the whole truth. He’d tried dating, in the beginning, but he couldn’t stomach the lying required. He may not be using his talents in public, but life was much harder without hangover potions and scouring charms. He’d tried one-offs too, and found them exceedingly dull. He’d thrown himself fully into his work, and even Miriams sly, ‘aw, love, this is my mate Sean, sorry I gotta dash but next rounds on me yeah?’ had failed to turn up any actual possibilities.

 Not that they were bad-- they were all fit, decent men, and clearly interested-- but he just couldn’t. There were too many scars.

 “Enough about my arse. What about yours? Liam still sniffing around?” he said with a sneer, and her posture shifted. He groaned inwardly. Liam was a pissant, an alcoholic footie fanatic who’d somehow convinced his incandescent best friend that he was worth her time-- he watched her slowly dim, month after month until her light was barely there. Draco had never quite managed to prove it, but he’d seen too many bruises back then to excuse.

She sighed, putting her head in her hands, and he pointed an accusing finger.

“Don’t, yeah? I know, I know what you’re about to say but-- he’s got clean, he’s made himself better-- who am I to deny him a chance? He did it for me, getting clean and sober and I can’t...I just can’t let it be for nothing.” Her voice cracked with emotion, but the accompanying conviction dropped a stone deep into Draco’s stomach. “What can I do? I love him,” she said, continuing before he could stop her. “I love him, and he’s a cunt, but-- we went through so much together. I can’t abandon him now, Draco, yeah? You understand. He needs me,” she said quietly, and he knew all hope was lost. His eyes stung as he blinked rapidly, dread settling deep in his bones.

“Just promise me-- if he gets… if he hurts you, ever, if he _touches_ you and you don’t like it… promise me you’ll let me keep you safe,” he said, voice thick with how many times he wished he’d said it before now, and her soft brown eyes echoed the concern in his.  

Fuck. When had life become so complicated? He’d left his old life behind to live peacefully, without all the baggage that upset him. All he’d been this entire week was upset. 

“Fuck. Sorry, love, this was supposed to be a pint and a chat,” Miriam said, clearing his throat and dabbing at her eyes. He shook his head.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you can always tell me.” His eyes narrowed. “How long though? Why didn’t you tell me before?"

She had the grace and decency to look embarrassed. 

“A little over a week, really, as far as it being, well, official-- I was always going to tell you, I meant to tell you sooner, but you were--” she made a series of flailing motions, and he groaned for the umpteenth time.

Trust his life to go tits up at the exact moment she needed him the most.

“Don’t look like that, you goose. I don’t need you faffing about in my business,” she said, waving away the apology bubbling in his throat. He choked down a sigh.

“Would you believe me if I said the same to you?” he asked her, and the peal of laughter she let out lifted his spirits all the way home.


	3. Preheating

The next morning he was up before dawn, London barely swirling to life around him. He loved this time of day, sky barely light, ears full of the sounds of busses rumbling to life and sleepy binmen hacking with laughter. It was a time where barely anybody took a moment to notice the posh blond with perfect posture picking his way through the streets.

 

Not that Draco was all that observant today, either. He was painfully aware of exactly who would be invading his space in a few hours’ time. Would Granger have told them? She must have.

 

He walked into the already lit storefront-- Miriam jumped as he entered.

 

“You tit. You didn’t sleep last night, did you?” She shook her head, and his eyes widened as he stared at the array of perfect pieces, laid out like precious jewels, apricot jelly twinkling as it dripped from the brush in her hands.

 

“I thought we said we weren’t going to change the look of the pasties?” Draco asked, and Miriam shook her head.

 

“Nah, It’s my turn to be stubborn. I have kept one of your original design, but ours are so much better.” She grinned, tapping her nose.

 

“They’re almost all done. Just the garnishes to finish and then you can put the bread in for the morning rush.” He sighed for possibly the 27th time in the last 72 hours, and wondered to himself if he wouldn’t have been better off never meeting Miriam at all. She put a hand on his arm, and he almost dropped the jar of preserved blossoms.

 

“When they arrive, I’m guessing you’d like to stay in the back? You’re welcome to put on a mask if you’re worried. You take care of the morning baking, and and they shouldn’t be too long,” she said softly, and he nodded.

 

“If they ask… about me… or how you knew about the pasties,” he croaked, “if that _woman_ hasn’t told them already-- just say it’s a partial payment of a life debt.”

 

Miriam rolled her eyes. “You are wasted as a baker, my little Cumberbatch. You can’t fight the drama, can you?”

 

He ignored her. His heart was beating too quickly. Why had he said that? _Why had he said that?_ If Granger hadn’t told them already, there would be no mistaking his identity after that. At this point, he felt like a zombie, barely holding his head above water. Once they knew, they knew, and that was that. At least this way, _he_ could be in control.

 

Sure enough, he felt the fog lift as soon as he heard three voices chorus in the dining room. It was inevitable now, and so it would be. The sooner this started (and ended), the sooner he could go back to his mundane life, and his mundane problems, and _finally_ convincing mother to make it to the shop, and--

 

The door banged open, and the air heated in his lungs.

 

“Get out, you bastard!” Miriam's voice sounded miles away as grey eyes met green, storm clouds unleashing torrents on the moors.

 

“I’m…I’m sorry, Malfoy. I just had to see.”

 

Draco nodded.

 

“Just as well,” he said simply, and turned to the refrigerator.

 

Sounds came roaring back almost as soon as he broke eye contact with his former nemesis, and Miriam was beside him in an instant.

 

“That fucking tosser, Draco, I’m so sorry, this is _not--_ ”

 

“It’s fine,” Draco said, voice sounding strange to himself. “It’s over. If the pasties were acceptable, take the order. He glanced up at the door to see Granger’s face, worried eyes wide, and felt a rush of anger.

 

“Acceptable?” He asked through gritted teeth, and she nodded, opening her mouth to speak. He held up a hand imperiously.

 

“We’ll do it. Get out,” he said tersely. Granger nodded, and as quickly as they came, they were gone. Draco sighed.

 

“Pass the cornmeal, Miriam,” he said grimly, and she cocked her head tentatively, face red from fading anger as she handed him the box. He flicked some at her face to her delighted surprise.

 

“That better be an _enormous_ raise.”

\--------------

 

Harry stared up at the tiny sign across the street for the 15th time in the last three days.

 

Every time, he told himself, ‘Harry, this will be your last.” And every time, he found himself there. Again.

 

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Malfoy, really, it wasn’t. Bygones were very well gone, and so were the days of assuming nefarious deeds were occurring right under his nose. Malfoy was living his life as it should be-- quiet, simple, and not in Harry’s way.

 

But just-- well, Harry had so many _questions._

 

How did he end up here? What had occurred to lead Malfoy to this point? How did a pureblood darling, bastion of magic, become a Muggle baker in the middle of London?

 

Harry was sure that between House Elves and Narcissa, Draco Malfoy had never done a single chore in his life-- and yet, here he was. The image was etched in his mind like a painting: pale face smudged even paler with flour, hands red with faded burns slashing the white lengths of his arms, already thin lips pulled even thinner. Grey eyes staring in that blankly cool way that had always made him seethe with rage.

 

“Ahem.” A voice snapped him back to reality. He blinked.

 

“You’re blocking the entrance, mate,” said a man in a peacoat, glaring peevishly. “Some of us have things to do.”

 

“Right, er, sorry,” he said, stepping to the side hastily. He didn’t remember walking across the street, but here he was, face practically pressed against the glass as he stared at the glass case full of delicate pastries. The fragrance wafted over him as the man swept out, and his stomach growled loudly enough to be embarrassing.

 

He debated going in, and was about to turn and walk away when the door opened again. In the doorway stood a gruff-looking man with angled black eyebrows, round cheeks belying the wrinkles framing quick, severe eyes.

 

“Come in boy, and stop staring. We’re not a charity, but we’ll not have you go hungry either.”

 

“Oh no, I’m--” he tried to protest, but it was too late. The man disappeared inside, and Harry followed him in.

 

He knew better than to deny fate when he saw it.

 

“Sit.” The old man said, pulling out a chair at the side and sniffing in clear disapproval. Harry sniffed his clothes surreptitiously. Nothing too strange. James obediently took a seat, and the old man nodded.

 

“At least you’re not a proud one. Can’t stand those,” he muttered, disappearing into the back. Harry idly wondered what that could mean before he returned, followed by the young woman--Miriam?-- holding a brown paper bag.

 

“It’s still the morning, so we haven’t much, but-- oh, it’s _you,_ ” she said, lowering the bag with a smirk.

 

“Finally had the guts to actually come in instead of stalking about out there, then, did you?” Her smile was just dangerous enough, and Harry blanched.

 

“Of course he was stalking about, Miriam. He was hungry. I thought you told them all to come round the back,” the old man said, and she rolled her eyes.

 

“Yes, Papa, I did. He must be new,” she said, turning to him. Her eyes twinkled.

 

“Let me show you the backroom entrance, yeah? There’s always something in the crate by the door.” Her voice was genial and placid, but her grip on his forearm was piercing as she dragged him out into the cold and through the back alley. She dropped his arm, and opened her mouth to speak before shutting it again abruptly. She sighed.

 

“Coffee or Tea?” she asked. He blinked.

 

“What?”

 

“I said, coffee or tea. Preference?” She crossed her arms. Harry felt lost.

 

“Er-- coffee. Thanks.”

 

“Milk, sugar?”

 

“Black’s fine.”

 

“Cheers. Stay here,” she said, yanking open the clearly heavy steel door with the ease of a feather. Harry idly wondered if that strength was about to be used on him.

 

“Don’t move, Green Eyes,” she shot back behind him, and Harry lamented his strange circumstances and damnable curiosity until she came back, steam blooming from the paper cup.

 

“I don’t know what the _fuck_ you’re on about,” she said, her aggressive tone a stark contrast to the gentle passing of the cup. “Or who you are to my best friend, but if you continue skulking around here I’ll not hesitate to find you and murder you in your sleep.” Her voice was tight and deadly, and he opened his mouth to reassure her, but the words caught in his throat. He sipped his coffee in lieu of a reply, and was pleasantly surprised.

 

“This is quite good,” he said, blinking. She snorted, throwing up her hands.

 

“Maybe he deserves you. Fucking hell.” She thrust a slightly misshapen croissant in his hands.

 

“I’ve covered for you so far. Lucky for _you_ ,he’s on his day off. He doesn’t need to know you’re here unless I decide to tell him, and papa won’t blow it, because he just thinks you’re a hungry, harmless, village idiot. Just tell me if you’re here to spy on our progress or to ruin his life.”

 

“What?” Harry jumped up. “No, neither, not-- nothing like that. We were friends, of a sort. In School. Well, enemies.”

 

“You bullied him.” Her eyes hardened.

 

“No, Mer--no. Christ. If anyone was the bully, it was him,” Harry said defensively, and she let out an undignified snort.

 

“Yeah, that’s what he said too.” Harry’s eyes widened as her words sank into his bones. He knew Malfoy felt remorse, but still-- hearing it from the mouth of a Muggle, in Malfoy’s confidence-- the cognitive dissonance made his brain hurt.

 

“Look, it doesn’t matter. I can promise you on my mother’s grave I’m not here to ruin his life, or sabotage anything, or-- I just needed-- fuck, you know what, I don’t know why I’m here, actually. I just wanted to see. There’s been absolutely no news of him, not a single peep since we left school. Not a sighting, or a chat-- and we,” Harry struggled to find the words that would make sense. “We experienced tragedy together. We were a small school. It matters where we end up. Seeing him here was an utter surprise.”

She looked at him, eyes still flinty and sharp.

 

“I’m beginning to think everyone at that school of yours was dead barking,” she said with a grimace. Harry chuckled, tension leaving his body.

 

“That’s probably true. Just… is he… is he all right?”

 

She blinked at him. Harry held his breath, but it was unnecessary. She threw her head back and let out a laugh, a full bellied guffaw that nearly threw him back with its force; Harry liked her better for it instantly.

 

“This is too rich. Too _rich._ ” She wiped tears from her eyes, digging around in her apron pockets. She handed him a card and a bag.

 

“Look, I’m having a little party this weekend, just me and my band. Why don’t you come along and ask him yourself, eh? It’s my house, so he can’t throw you out.” She flapped her hand at the bag, and he opened it to reveal a mouthwatering palmier as big as his face. She grinned.

 

“You can pay me for that at the party. Now you have to come, yeah? Otherwise _that--_ ” she pointed her hand at the cookie. “--is stealing.”

 

Harry had the distinct feeling he’d been had.

 

“Now off you fuck. If Draco catches us out here, we’ll both be murdered in our beds.” She stood up, smiling lopsidedly.

 

“See you on the week-end!” she said cheerily, sauntering back into the shop, leaving fragrant aromas of pastry and cream in her wake.

 

Harry stood up, taking a bite of the rich flaky cookie and groaning in appreciation. Something was coming. Change was in the air.

 

He just wished he knew if it was good or bad.


	4. Scoring

The rest of the week passed by in relative quiet compared to the excitement of the past few days. Even his day off (which he wouldn’t have bothered taking except for Miriam’s insistence) was dull, ignoring his coworker’s suggestive eyebrow wag for the comfort of his house and a cuppa. All was boring, mundane, repetitious.

 

Draco was thrilled.

 

It wasn’t until Saturday that he realized it had all been a ruse, laughing his way into Miriam’s kitchen listening to her cousin’s elaborate story. 

 

“Oh, I most certainly can belie--” he stopped abruptly.  This was impossible. The most impossible. The most unfathomably impossible.

 

A tentative dark hand adjusted familiar black frames around familiar green eyes.

 

“Er...hi.”

 

Draco opened and closed his mouth like a fish, unable to think of a single response that wasn’t utterly stupid. Harry must have thought he was angry-- he stood up.

 

“Miriam invited me, I swear. She cornered me after I stopped by the other day. I don’t mean to… I mean…”

 

It was clear that the Chosen One was only now realizing what a very stupid decision it had been to come here, and Draco found himself deflated.

 

“It’s fine.” Draco found his voice after a moment. “Miriam’s always taking in strays.”

 

“Is that how you met?” Harry blurted out, looking immediately regretful. Draco shook his head, laughing incredulously. He needed a drink. A very large, very strong drink. He raised a groomed eyebrow at the still sorrowful looking Potter, and wondered again how he ever managed his social life. Granger or Weasley, most likely.

 

“Do I look like a stray to you?” he said, inwardly thanking every God that he’d taken care with his clothes today. Something vicious sparked in him, the Malfoy blood rising.

 

“Enjoy your evening, Potter, and try not to look like someone killed your owl.”

 

He couldn’t help the pang of satisfaction watching veritable steam rise from Potter’s ears.

 

A pang that dissipated in an instant when he turned around, coming face to face with ruddy cheeks, shocking blue eyes, and a nose almost as slender and greek as his own.

 

“Liam.” Draco willed his jaw and fist to relax, and the man gave him a charming smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

 

“Draco,” he said. “Been a long time, hasn’t it.”

 

“Has it? It’s barely seemed long enough.” He’d never been so grateful for his mother’s years of tight-lipped training. Countdown from ten, Draco, countdown from from ten.

 

“She sounds wonderful, doesn’t she,” Liam said, gesturing towards the woman on stage, looking incandescent with a mic in her hand, as Miriam always did.

 

“She’s been really improving since she’s moved out on her own. So much easier to breathe when the house is clean. Don’t you agree?” Draco put as much icy death in his eyes as he could, and Liam’s smile grew feral.

 

“Your days are numbered, pest,” He hissed threateningly, and Draco laughed his best tinkling, deadly, Narcissan laugh.

 

“You’d drop dead before you even touched me, you feculent leech. And if I see even a single blemish, I swear on my father’s--”

 

“Playing nice boys?” Miriam popped up, eyes dark and anxious above a falsely bright smile.

 

Liam immediately retracted.

 

“Of course, my dove. You’ve just come upon Draco and I getting reacquainted. We’ll be seeing so much of each other from now on that I thought we might bury the hatchet.” Liam kissed her, and Draco felt ill.

 

“That’s wonderful. Can’t have my boys fighting each other, or you’ll have no energy to fight with me,” she said liltingly. Draco clenched his teeth.

 

“Don’t you fret, darling, I’ll have plenty,” Draco spat out, and Liam took her waist with a smug look and walked away. Miriam glanced back, mouthing her thanks.

 

 _Gods_ . How did he _still_ not have a fucking _drink?_

 

“That guy,” said a voice from behind him. “Looks like an absolute twat. And next to you, that’s saying something.”

 

Draco knew who it was before he even turned around.

 

“That,” he said, “must be the most intelligent thing you’ve said since we were eleven.” Potter’s eyes were alight with mirth, and Draco was surprised to find himself smiling back. He sighed. No point in fighting it any longer.

 

“Come along, Potter. Let’s see if you can outdrink a Death Eater.”

 

Miriam found them doing just that a few hours later, tears pouring out of Draco’s eyes as he doubled over in laughter.

 

“He thought…. He thought… fucking _hell,_ Potter!”

 

“Wazzat?” Harry gave him a mock offended look, and Draco shook his head.

 

“It’s just… _you_ . The richest man in Diagon, maybe the whole world, the most loved, the _CHOOOSEEEENNNN OOONNEEEE_ ,” Draco boomed out in his best Ludo Bagman. “ _YOU_ , mistaken for … a _beggar_.” He wiped tears from his eyes, sitting up a little straighter. “You can’t tell me that isn’t the most objectively hilarious thing since my father was chased around the manor grounds by peacocks for twenty minutes in his best clothes.

 

“Now _there’s_ a story,” Potter said, mirth sparkling in his own eyes, and Draco felt something he was very worried was not just grain alcohol.

 

“What’s a story?” Miriam’s eyes were soft, and Draco could tell she was pleased. Whatever scheme she was hatching up, it clearly involved the two of them getting along.

 

“Oh, just a story about his dear old--” Draco kicked him under the table. “Er-- dear old school days,” Potter finished lamely. Draco wondered how he’d ever vanquished anything.

 

“Of course!” her eyes lit up. “You must have known each other at school. What was our Draco like, eh?”

 

Draco shot up out of his seat in a panic, searching for a way out of the conversation, but Harry’s voice was steady and easy after a moment’s hesitation.

 

“An absolute wizard at everything he wanted to do,” Harry said. “And an absolute cock to anyone he didn’t like.”

 

“Which was you,” Miriam said with a laugh, clearly oblivious to Draco’s chest constricting tighter and tighter with each breath.

 

“Which was me.” Harry shrugged passively.

 

“To be fair, I extended the hand of friendship first.” Draco said mildly, but Harry shook his head.

 

“Life’s not fair. And even if we _were_ being fair, you tortured my friends.”

 

 _Woomp._ The air was gone.

 

“I’ll see you around, Potter. You sounded divine, Miriam, as always.” Draco gathered up his dignity like a shroud and glided out the door.

 

Miriam met drunkenly accusatory green eyes with brown eyes full of enough pity and disgust that Harry immediately put his head in his hands.

 

“You’re only hurting yourself, you know,” she said, cleaning up his drink despite his feeble protests.

 

“You’re done. You can stop by the shop and apologize when you’re sober.”

 

“Apologize, he’s the one-- he should be apologizing to me, after everything he’s done!”

 

Miriam grabbed his head between her hands with surprising force.

 

“Listen, cunt. Whatever thing he’s done, and if you tell me I _will_ kill you myself, by the way. Whatever he’s done, it’s bad enough that he’s never felt he could turn to any of you, and never tried. Whatever weird little cult world you two are in, he has left behind for this. He screams in his sleep every night to be taken away, to not see whatever horrors you have seen. Is that not fucking apology _enough_?” She let go of his face.

 

“Now go on. Scuttle home before I throw you out myself.”


	5. Proofing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the hiatus. Life got in the way. Thank you always for your support and readership.

Draco woke up the next morning wishing he’d drank enough to black out the night before, Potter’s words ash in his already chalky mouth. They’d run through his dreams, mocking him on the wings of blackened snitches. 

He was right, of course he was. That was the worst part.

Draco got ready for work with little joy-- Sundays were his least favorite anyway, and he had no desire to face either a post-shag Miriam or a terrifying Mr. Iida, no doubt also annoyed by his daughter. 

Sure enough, he arrived to Miriam sparkling like fresh snow, eyes growing even brighter as she took in his appearance.

“Still enjoying a nice sulk, love?”

He put as much hatred into his glare as he possibly could, raising a shaky two finger salute as he tossed his coffee remains into the bin. She just laughed.

“Yes, yes, alright, I’ll leave you alone. Score those and pop them in, would you?”

He let himself get lost in the easy companionship of the work for the rest of the day. As predicted, Mr. Iida was disgruntled at his daughter’s perky demeanor, but had elected to remain silent rather than thundering at her and letting her thunder back. 

It all suited Draco rather well.

“I’ve told you once, I’ve told you again, use the back entrance--”

“Er, I’m not here for a handout, sir.” Draco’s blood ran cold, and he didn’t dare look at Miriam, whom he could feel shaking with mirth from across the table.

“Not a word,” he hissed.

“Finally!” Mr Iida’s pleased voice boomed out, “About time, young man. Always good to see a reformed youth back in our doors. Come to finally buy something, have you?”

Miriam was doubled over in laughter, clutching her sides, and Draco wasn’t sure who to kill first-- her, Potter, or himself.

“Miriam!” he said throwing her a scathing look, and she just continued laughing, standing up with some difficulty.

“Oh, this is so rich,” she said, still cackling. “Take your break now, love. I’ll bring him round the back,” she said, wiping her teary hands on her apron as she kicked the door open. 

Draco wrung his hands, brain frozen slightly. What could Potter possibly want?

He hung his apron on the hook as he walked outside to see his archenemy and best friend glaring at each other across the alley.

“Am I missing something?” he said, and she shot the messy-haired man a blistering look.

“I believe your scrotty little friend here has something to tell you. Doesn’t he?” She shot Potter another menacing look, and Draco laughed at the sheer absurdity.

“Bloody hell, Miriam, it’s all right. If it’s about the party it’s--it’s fine. We’re... it’s all right, really, I deserve more than a harsh word, truth be told.”

“Bollocks,” Miriam said, but it was without heat as she nodded goodbye to Potter and headed back in.

“Look, Malfoy, I--”

“Don’t.” Suddenly the thought of an apology from Potter made him want to vomit. “Really. I mean it. It’s fine, you have every right to be upset. That’s why I’m here, away from you and your friends and everything else, because you have the right to feel and think everything you do, and plenty worse besides. It’s better for everyone this way.”

“No, you don’t understand!” Potter pulled at his hair, and something about it was so familiar Draco’s heart ached a little.

“We reformed Azkaban because that isn’t fair, Malfoy. You shouldn’t have to hide out here, without-- I mean, you’re one of the Sacred Twenty--”

“Stop!” Draco was surprised by his own vehemence. “That kind of talk is what got us into this mess, and what got my father Kissed. Forgive me or don’t, fair or not fair, I don’t feel the need to go back, no matter what you and your do-gooder friends might think. Now piss. Off.”

Draco’s blood was hot in a way it hadn’t been in a long time. It almost felt good.

“I won’t, mate. Please. I didn’t come here to argue with you. Miriam let me have it for what I said last night, and she wasn’t wrong. There’s no way to go forward if we don’t leave the past behind us,” Potter said, and his voice was so earnest and hopeful Draco was dangerously close to believing it. 

“Potter,” Draco said, letting out a breath, and the hope was gone. “You live in a lovely dream world, you and Granger and the- Weasley, but the rest of the world disagrees. As they bloody well should. Now please, and I am actually dangerously close to begging you, do us all a favor and forget my existence entirely. Send a man to pick the order up when it’s done, Potter.” Draco stormed back in, slamming the door. Miriam looked up darkly as Mr. Iida shouted reprimands in from the storefront.

Draco winced. 

“Sorry, Mr. Iida, I’ll keep it down!” he shouted back, voice as unaffected as possible as the scalding water reddened his hands. 

Miriam cut into a giant slab of chocolate fiercely.

“You do realize I’m being very magnanimous by not asking you questions about this whole bollocking business, yeah? Just so we’re clear.”

Draco knew he’d regret his words before they came out of his mouth, but Potter always knew how to take away his filter.

“You think you’re the only one? You and I both know what we’re actually not talking about, and it certainly isn’t my scrotty little fucking friend, as you so aptly put it.”

He watched them strike her as if in slow motion, and his stomach turned.

“Fuck, Miriam, I--”

“Mouth. Shut.” She set her lip stubbornly, wiping at angry tears welling in her eyes in a desperate attempt to save the chocolate. Draco knew better than to argue, and the air was thick with emotion when Mr. Iida came into the kitchen. The old man raised a furry Vulcan eyebrow.

“I do hope everything is going smoothly with this big order, Draco.” The man looked at him calmly. “There is--”

“No room for error, Mr. Iida, absolutely.” The old man blinked, looking steadily at Draco.

“Miriam, if the salt and moisture ruins that chocolate, the replacement is coming out of your own paycheque. Get lunch and temper it after you’ve come back with yourself under control.”

She stared furiously at her father, twin eyes clashing across the room until she finally slammed her knife down, throwing her apron on the counter.

Mr. Iida watched her go, turning to Draco a few silent moments after her footsteps left their range.

“You’re to keep her safe, you know.”

Draco dropped his towel.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I do not repeat myself, boy. You know this.” Draco nodded slowly.

“I am dying. My daughter will not accept this. She is her mother’s child-- always has been. She refuses to see reason and will give others every chance to hurt her, over and over again. We cannot stop her.” Mr. Iida’s mouth was set in a grim line, and for the first time Draco truly remembered she was his daughter. He had only ever thought about it from Miriam's side, her father an old hard taskmaster to be obeyed and respected, reluctantly or otherwise. It had never occurred to him that everything that broke his heart about his best friend would break her father's as well. “She is headstrong, and we both know telling her what to do will only cause her to draw further away. I am the only family she has left-- soon, it will be you.”

Mr. Iida’s eyes began to glisten. Draco felt ill.

“You are a good man, Draco. I can rest easy, soon, knowing she will be protected by you.” Suddenly the sharpness was back in his eyes, and Draco was left reeling, not entirely sure he hadn’t just exited a trance.

“Now go make a coffee the way she likes it, and leave it under the warmer. She’ll forgive you after the first sip-- her mother always did.” Draco nodded, dazedly turning away.

“Never bake when you’re upset, Draco. It’ll never turn out quite right,” he said sternly, hanging up his daughter’s apron as he went back out into the storefront.


	6. Leavening

Draco rubbed his eyes. This could _not_ be happening. 

 

“Are… are you...lost?”

 

Ron Weasley shook his head.

 

“Fraid, not mate.” Panic shot through Draco.

 

“My mother? Is my mother all right? Did something ha--”

 

“No!” Weasley’s hand shot out. “No, no, everything’s fine. Sorry, I’m a bit shit at this. Everyone is fine. I just-- look, mate, d’you have a few minutes? Mind spending it on a bit of a walk?”

 

Draco thought his eyes might fall out of their sockets. Maybe there was some kind of camera, some Skeeteresque reporter ready to jump out and capture his surprise on film. He narrowed his eyes.

 

“I’d rather not be murdered in broad daylight, thanks.”

 

Weasley let out a barking laugh.

 

“Fair is fair, can’t say I wouldn’t do the same in your place.”

 

“Why are you here?” Draco felt the words burst out of him, and felt green at the desperation he heard in his own tone. “I’m not bothering you, not underfoot or in the way. I paid for my crimes, though we both know it wasn’t enough and won’t ever be enough. Can’t you leave me in peace?” To his own abject horror, he started to feel tears welling up in his eyes.

 

“Fuck, no, Malfoy, I--”

 

“Not. A. Word. Just leave.”

 

Weasley made a tortured face that Draco realized was an attempt at sympathy. Maybe he should go on that walk and be murdered just to never experience this level of humiliation ever again. Draco turned to head back inside.

 

“We’re the last of our kind, you and I,” said Weasley. Draco stopped in his tracks, blood curdling. “Our people are dying out faster than they can be replaced.” Draco turned, incredulous, sure that the vengeful ghost of Bellatrix Lestrange had suddenly inhabited his second-to-least-favorite redhead. 

 

“I’m here because we can’t afford to lose you, Malfoy, to lose anyone. Why do you think we’re doing this? Why we changed Azkaban from the ground up? The great enemies are dead. Grindelwald, Voldemort, they succeeded because we divided ourselves before they ever began. It’s time to bring back our own. You are the last of your line, and one of the only left with roots going back to the Sacred 28.” 

 

“You’re beginning to sound like my father.” Rage was starting to simmer through his veins, and he felt a little more steady on his feet because of it. Weasley shrugged.

 

“Fair is fair, I suppose. The difference is, mate, your dad decided to off anyone who disagreed with him.” Draco snorted, and Weasley gave an easy smile.

 

“Look, I know it sounds the same, but it couldn’t be more different. No murdering, no registries, no halfbreed blood traitor Muggleborn bullshit, yeah? We’re trying to cultivate what we already have, that’s all it is. Keep what we have and grow our own even more. Show the world that pureblood wizards and witches are more progressive than ever, and ready to earn our good names back. ” Weasley looked so earnest, Draco had a powerful urge to slap him. He calmed himself. _Backwards from ten, Draco. Backwards from ten._

 

“Bit hard to grow anything when you’re a flaming poof, wouldn’t you say?” Draco arched an eyebrow. 

 

Weasley chuckled. “Not at all, Malfoy. What we need from you requires no biological equipment at all,” he said. “And really, not much from you. Just your mum.”

 

Draco saw red.

 

“If you are suggesting my mother have another child, or some kind of absolute fucking--”

 

“NO!” Weasley jumped. “No no no, shite, I am fucking rubbish at this.” Weasley put his hands over his eyes.

 

“Then just be out with it and have fucking done, will you?” Draco stood a little taller, crossing his arms. The man fidgeted under his steel gaze.

 

“Cor, I wish Hermione was here, she’s so much more diplomatic about it. Just suppose I better crack at it and be done, yeah?”

 

“Yes. If. You. Don’t. Mind.” Draco said through his teeth, counting backwards wildly as he resisted the urge to strangle him. Weasley sighed, straightening up.

 

“The Ministry of Magic, War Crime Division, in accordance with Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, would like to make a formal proposition to the heir of the Malfoy estate to restore and re-open Malfoy Manor as a place for those orphaned by the Second Wizarding War to practice their arts and a home base during school breaks.”

 

Draco felt his own blood pumping through his head as he plunked down on the plastic crates, speechless.

 

Ron sat across from him, hands in earnest, clearly heartened by the lack of immediate rejection.

 

“Malfoy, it’s the perfect place. Massive grounds, totally secluded, with enough room to house the children and an extra wing besides. Excellent security, private floo network. A small muggle town close enough to allow muggle visitors to access the grounds. Believe me, Hermione has pored over every book, run every number and statistic you can think of, and some besides. There is nowhere better in Britain than the Manor.” Weasley’s face was solemn, and Draco felt nauseous.

 

“Weasley, I… How could you… we killed them. Their parents. Some of them in that very house.”

 

“Yes, you did.” Weasley said evenly, and this time Draco did throw up, racing to the bin at the end of the alley. He allowed a passing fantasy that when he turned around, Weasley would be gone-- but when he finally finished retching up his morning coffee, the gangly redhead was still there, unmoving. Draco walked shakily back, pulling out his handkerchief to wipe his face.

 

“May I continue?”

 

“Sure,” Draco sat down heavily, closing his eyes as he leaned against the cool concrete. “Why the fuck not.”

 

Weasley opened his mouth; he closed it abruptly.

 

“Did you know I left?”

 

“What?” 

 

Weasley looked haunted.

 

“In the forest, after we escaped from the Ministry. I left them to die, and they almost did. I was weak and petty and selfish, and in my defense a little bit cursed by that fucking demon locket.” He shook his head.

 

“Hermione said it was the worst moment of her life. Worse than the torture, worse than her parents forgetting her, worse than fighting any one of your former lot, because she trusted me more than anyone else, and I left when she needed me the most. I wake up every day next to the woman I love more than anything in the whole world _knowing_ I have already failed her, and she will never trust me that deeply again.” Weasley looked right into Draco’s face, green eyes glistening.

 

“I know what it is to regret, Draco. To hate yourself enough that death sounds better than another day you know you don’t deserve.” Weasley wiped his eyes. 

 

“We can’t undo the past, Malfoy, but we can shape a future without our mistakes.”

 

Draco felt wrung out, and Weasley looked the same. They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity.

 

“But… my mother,” Draco finally said, weakly, and Weasley gave a small, wry grin.

 

“Full disclosure, mate, your mother’s a big part of it.” He sat a little straighter, and Draco rose up to meet him. “She’s the perfect fundraiser, well-liked, respected. People we both know should be behind bars will follow her as a way to regain status they thought would never come. Others will follow because of the cause-- and others because we all know your mother throws a damn good party.” They both grinned. “Even when I hated you, I still crossed off the days before the Samhain Ball.”

 

Draco sighed, and Weasley produced a roll of parchment out of nowhere. 

 

“Bring this to your mother. See what she thinks.” Ron handed him the parchment, and Draco took it shakily.

 

“Welcome to moving forward, Malfoy.” Ron clapped him on the shoulder, and Draco started. “Good to have you with us.” And before Draco could retort, he Disapparated.

 

\-----------

_Whoosh!_

 

The sound rang in his ears as he stepped daintily into the foyer, heart beating wildly. He’d sent the scrolls ahead to his mother before closing up shop, unable to handle them staring at him from his bag. He knew she’d have already read them-- “it’s in terrible bad taste, my dragon,” she used to say, “to leave correspondence unread.”

 

He felt a terrible bad taste in his mouth, he thought, staring at his feet. _Back. Wards. From. Ten._

 

He stood till he had calmed down, and as if on cue, he heard a rustling of skirts. She looked up at him evenly.

 

“Mother, I--” he was cut off by a second set of footsteps, and a too-fucking familiar set of spectacles and untameable hair popped up behind her. He looked at her eyes, twinkling below delicate eyebrows, and realized he’d been had. 

 

He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or furious.

“You’d already settled it, hadn’t you. You were just waiting for _me_ to say yes.”

 

She laughed his very favorite of her laughs, an undignified snort. 

 

“Do you really think they came up with it _all_ by themselves? No offense meant, Harry dear,” she said over her shoulder. Potter held up his hands.

 

“It was meant, but also correct,” said Harry. “Your mother approached us more than a year ago with the idea. We thought it was brilliant, and Ron and Hermione’s research confirmed it. We knew we wouldn’t have time until Azkaban was finished, and she wouldn’t give us the go ahead until you said yes. She also wouldn’t tell us where to find you, so you can imagine our predicament.”

 

“A year?” Draco said, feeling the tips of his hair crackle with magic. “You’ve been lying to me for a _year?_ ”

 

His mother’s eyes stopped twinkling.

 

“Harry, darling, I think you should leave me alone with my son.”

 

“Absolutely. Take care, Draco,” he said with infuriating kindness. Draco thought idly about slamming the roof down on his head. He waited until the ash settled in the fireplace before opening his mouth. He closed it again, not sure of what to say suddenly, and tea appeared on the side table. His mother sighed.

 

“Sit.” She pointed at the chaise, and he sat down warily. She glared.

 

“I am not a china doll, my dragon. I endured years of Him, encroaching on my marriage, on my child, living in _my_ house, stealing my sister and torturing my family. Even in the early days, my love, this house held nothing but fear and rage. You and your father were my only joys, and once you both were gone, I had nothing to do but sit with it all. This would be a purpose, my love. A challenge.” She sat down next to him, pulling his stiff body towards him. He buried his head in her shoulder.

 

“You cannot fathom how long I have waited for something to do, my dragon. I waited until you were ready for the challenge too. And it will be a challenge, my love. I will not be able to do it alone.”

 

“How can you.. Do you really think we can do it at all? Will this redeem us?” He said quietly. She stilled. 

 

“No, my dragon. I do not think it will. But for the first time we have a chance to make something new! How foolish would we have to be, to let our regret for a past we cannot control prevent us from creating a future we can?”

 

A thought suddenly occurred to him. 

 

“Did you send them to Iida? And then send Weasley to convince me?”

 

She grinned sheepishly.

 

“I did mention that a Muggle bakery might be a good choice for the party, I’ll admit. I was growing impatient and realized I was being a bit overprotective of you, though they picked Iida out all on their own.” She laughed his favorite laugh again. “As for Weasley, that was a decidedly peculiar choice and entirely against my recommendation, though he was clearly effective.”

 

“He told me,” Draco said with some difficulty, “that he knew what it was to regret. To want to go back and change the future. But what if it’s impossible?”

 

His mother sat in silence for a moment, pensive as she stared out into the rose garden.

 

“Sometimes, my love,” she said, holding his face in her hands, “the impossible is the only thing worth doing.”


End file.
